Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (please do not use without permission)
When the mineshaft blew explosions echoed down the corridors, ringing off the walls and Linten wondered if escape had ever been an option. Unbuckling his helmet to ease the clanging reverberation, he grabbed the hilt of his tulwar brandishing the sabre as he stared into the gloom.
“Light!” he demanded gruffly, spitting dust out of his mouth, and the little moth on his shoulder burst into flames. Linten’s eyes darted about the impasse and fine particles of pulverised rock settled in the crypt, dusting his armour.
He spoke, his voice echoing, “That’s enough!” He didn’t want to extinguish his moth’s intrinsic luminosity, not when it might be needed again. Its flames died away and it fluttered nervously.
“Okay…” he spoke softly now, “let’s see if this'll work…” and he pulled a fast fading evanescent stone from his battered leather pouch. “She said a wish, just one…and I need it now!”
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